The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (14 page)

I found a paper-wrapped straw on the table and unpeeled it.

—And he gets a bribe for doing it.

Po Sin waved a finger in the air.

—It's not a bribe. It's a referral fee.

—It's illegal as hell.

—It is that, but it is not a bribe.

I dipped the straw in my margarita and took a sip.

—And the guild?

He lined up the second plate of chili relleno.

—The guild is a racket. Guy who owns Aftershock, Morton, is trying to get all the cleaners to join a guild. Guild will distribute jobs and contracts. Set prices. Broker health coverage, that kind of shit. The more cleaners he can get to sign on, the more pressure he can put on the remaining independents. They don't join, they're gonna have to find a way to live off the scraps of jobs that don't go through the guild.

—And you don't want to join an organization that will help to set the market in your favor and allow you to pool resources because?

He licked his fork clean and set it in the middle of his equally clean plate.

—Because it's a scam, Web. Because the work won't be distributed throughout the guild equally. Because it's set up so that Morton is the president and administrator of the guild, which, seeing as he owns Aftershock, is a rather large conflict of interest. Because the jobs come in and he assigns two out of every three to his own fucking company. So, what, I join and give the guild access to my contracts and contacts, my 7-Eleven gig, my Hyatt contract, my Amtrak deal, all my public housing call-lists, I hand that all to the guild and then what? Fucking Morton takes the sweetest plums for himself and I have to wait and get some shit call to clean up in front of a gas station where a dog got hit by some old lady who couldn't see over the steering wheel.

He propped an elbow on the table and jabbed a finger at me.

—Clean Team is my business. I created it. I built it. I made the contacts and sweated the contracts. Someone calls me, they know what they're getting. Twenty-four hours a day that goddamn phone is on. Someone calls, they have trouble, they're in pain, someone they love has died messy and they are traumatized, I pick up that phone any hour of the day or night. I talk to them civil and gentle. I come as soon as I can. I tell them straight what is involved and what it will cost. The job is harder, takes longer than I thought, costs me more than I estimated, that's my problem, I eat the
loss. That's my reputation. Doing the job the way it should be done, that's all I do. And that is worth something.

He leaned in, the tabletop tilting slightly under his weight. I remained very still, having, not for the first time, a sudden awareness of his crushing bulk.

—And I don't give that to anyone. What is in my house is mine. Who is in my house I take care of. My name, my reputation, those are in my house, those are for the well-being of my family. And I will not have my house fucked with.

He inhaled through his nose, a long wheeze, and leaned back into the depths of the booth.

—Especially not by an asshole like Morton.

I poked my straw into the melting ice at the bottom of my margarita glass.

—OK, then can you advise me as to how you will be making allowances to ensure I won't be getting beaten again? Because a police complaint is sounding like a pretty good strategy to me.

Po Sin looked at Gabe. Gabe looked at something, but I don't know what, all I could see was darkness and tiny red flames reflected in his glasses.

Po Sin picked up his margarita and drained half of it.

—The thing you have to remember here, Web, this isn't what you'd call a heavily regulated industry. They set the bar pretty low. Two hundred bucks, proof of a fixed address, and a contract with a licensed hazardous waste disposal company is all you need to be a certified trauma cleaner.

My eyebrows went up.

—Bullshit.

—No bullshit at all. You got employees, you have to pass an OSHA class, but that's it. So, see, you get a mixed bag of types drawn to the trade. At worst, mostly, you get people who are just fucking incompetent and lazy. They give the trade a bad name, but they also go out of business pretty fast. But there is a higher class of worst-case scenario, because some folks are just plain crooked as hell. Whether that means overbilling or maybe cutting corners on a job, whatever. Kind of stuff that Deputy Mercer was talking about with Aftershock. Worser case, you get some straight-up thieves. Go into a house, take advantage of being there while the family is staying in a motel because they don't want to look at the bloodstain that
used to be daddy, and they clean it out. Family says,
Where's the TV, where's the stereo, where's my stamp collection?
These guys say
Oh, that stuff, it was all contaminated, had to be disposed.
Contaminated? Shit was on the second floor at the back of a house where daddy did himself in the downstairs bathroom. Or maybe your aunt dies, chokes on her chocolate-covered cherries, lays there for a week with her Pekinese so hungry it takes a few nibbles. These guys come in, they do a great job with the cleaning, you're happy as hell with the deal. Two months later, new charges start showing up on auntie's credit cards. Stuff like that, we'd like it to stop. But we'd also like it not to have too bright a light shined upon it. Those kind of stories get too much coverage, that's bad for everyone's business.

I scooped some ice from my glass and put it in the middle of one of the red napkins and folded the material around it and pressed it to the knot on my forehead.

—Yeah, OK, no cops. So I'm still waiting for the part where you guys stop trading paint bombs and I don't have to be freaked about this shit happening to me again.

Gabe's phone beeped once. He took it from the clip on his belt, looked at the face, put it back on his belt and nodded at Po Sin.

Po Sin rubbed his nose.

—OK, you've got a handle on that first part. And yeah, there's also been some intimidation happening. Vandalization. Like the paint on the van. Also, job calls come in, you show up at the address and what do you find? Find a vacant lot, find a Chinese caterer where there's supposed to be a private residence. Don't have to think hard to figure who made the call, who's wasting your time and effort. Shit goes back and forth for a few months now. Some tit for tat. The guild trying to show us who's boss. Us showing them we don't work for no one. But you getting beat on, that was new. That was an escalation.

—Oh, lucky fucking me, breaking new ground.

He raised his hand and a waiter materialized from the gloom and placed a check on the table.

—I'm guessing that was my prick nephew at work.

I took the ice from my forehead.

—You're guessing? Man, I already told you it was him.

He placed some money on the check.

—I'm saying that was probably his own thing. Like he was pissed about
being fired, went running to Aftershock. I know Morton, he was more than happy to hire the punk. See what kind of dirt he can dig up on how we go about our business. Maybe find out we cut some corner he can go to the Better Business Bureau about. Fortunately, the kid knows fuckall. But he probably took it personal you were working his old job. Probably decided he'd show his value to his new employer by going the extra yard.

He took his glasses off and rubbed his face up and down.

—So now we have to sort it out, make sure things don't get out of hand.

—Yes, yes, do that, sort it out before it gets out of hand, before, I don't know, before someone gets beaten up or something.

He put his glasses back on.

—You know, Web, you don't want to be involved in any of this, you don't have to be. It's as easy as saying you're done with the job.

I took a chip from the basket and broke it in half.

—I know.

He took one of his empty plates by the rim and rotated it a few degrees, back and forth.

—So are you? Done with it?

I thought about that; not liking it much when someone pounds on me, I thought about it pretty hard. I thought about chilling out, like I had been for a year. I thought about hanging at the apartment. Sleeping. A lot. I thought about the slender thread dangling my friendship with Chev. And what would happen when it broke. And how much strain I'd already put on it.

I thought about the things I'd thought about most that last year, and how little I'd thought about them the last couple days when I'd actually had something to do.

I crushed the chip and watched the crumbs fall into the basket.

—No, I'm not done with it.

He pushed the table away, making room to rise.

—So let's go then.

I got up and trailed them to the door.

—Where are we going?

Gabe opened the door on the relative brightness of Ventura Boulevard at night. Po Sin went out and passed his parking ticket to the valet.

—We're going to a sit-down with Morton and his Aftershock captains. Make sure we all understand there's limits here. Things we can't be doing without causing trouble for everyone.

I waved my hand.

—I don't want to meet those assholes. I sure as shit don't want to see Dingbang.

The valet drove up in the van and Po Sin slipped him a couple bucks.

—Not to worry, you're not invited.

—OK, so who's taking me home?

He stood aside from the van and gestured at the open door.

—You're not going home, you're going to my shop.

—What? I thought you said I could clean it tomorrow.

—I did. You can. Or you can start tonight. I just need you there.

The valet parked Gabe's Cruiser behind the van and Gabe got behind the wheel.

Po Sin held up a finger to him and looked at me.

—Dingbang has keys to the shop.

—So let
him
clean it tonight.

—Web, Dingbang has keys to the shop and I haven't had the locks changed yet.

It took a second. I like to think I'm smart, but still it took a second. Then I got it.

—Fuck that!

He ran a knuckle over his moustache.

—Listen. Listen up here. We're gonna go talk to these guys. Have a couple beers at a place not far from here. It's nothing. It's exactly what they say it is. A negotiation to make sure no one gets carried away. But Gabe, he's a little more cautious than I am, a little less trusting, and he thinks they could use this as a way to be sure the shop is empty. Go in there and mess shit up.

—I know, I get it. That's why I said fuck that.

—It's not gonna happen. OK? All you do is go in, turn on all the lights and hang out. Clean if you want, or watch the TV in the office. Dick around on the computer. Nothing is going to happen.

—Then I don't have to be there.

He looked over at Gabe, back at me.

—I know, you're right, but it will give Gabe a little peace of mind. And one of the things I pay him for is so he has peace of mind. Because when he has peace of mind, I know everything is cool with everything. Make sense?

I shrugged.

—Sure, makes sense. I'm still not gonna sit there and wait for Dingbang to show and kick my ass again.

—Dingbang will be at the sit-down. To be disciplined. That was part of the deal. And even if someone comes by, the second they see the lights on, see someone in there, they'll take off. No one is looking to hurt anyone. What happened to you was the exception.

—Maaaaan. Crap.

He took me by the elbow.

—Web, this isn't a regular job. This is not nine to five. We clean blood and brains. We scrub shit. We vacuum maggot shells. We inhale gas from rotting corpses. This is not a regular job. And you will rarely be asked to do regular shit if you hang around. Sitting watch on the shop for the night, that's about as normal as it gets. Make sense?

I looked at Gabe, waiting to roll. I looked at the valet, waiting for us to get the fuck out of the way so he could bring the next car around. I looked at Po Sin, waiting for me to do or be something I didn't quite get.

I nodded.

—Makes sense.

He let go of my elbow.

—Then get in the van and get over there.

I got in the van.

—Web!

I looked out the window, he stood in the open passenger door of the Cruiser.

—Anything
does
happen, call nine one one.

I shook my head.

—Yeah, that I can manage.

He waved and got in the car. Gabe nodded at me through the windshield, and tossed me a slight salute.

The man paid to have peace of mind.

Where do I get that fucking job?

North of Ventura Boulevard, on a street off Burbank Boulevard near the 170 on the edge of North Hollywood, there's a strip of light industrial zoning. Cinder-block buildings that work sheet metal, rent construction equipment, rebuild tractor motors, salvage copper wiring from scavenged conduit, or simply seem to provide nothing but a center point around which to wrap chain link and concertina wire for large barking dogs to patrol without cease. Beat-to-hell late-model pickups, the same ones seen circling West Hollywood loaded with leaf blowers and weed whackers on weekday mornings, line the curbs. Telephone poles drop power lines to the corrugated roofs of the buildings.